A Rant About my Saturday Night in Modern Dating
Sometimes you need to be a little over dramatic so that when reality comes crashing back, it’s not all too bad.
I don’t have sex dreams. I have dreams of being hugged. It’s true.
I have nervous ticks and I can’t figure out what they are. They come and go, depending on how much I hate everything. I probably have a form of Tourette’s. I jiggle my eyebrows around sometimes. My coworker thought it was funny, how sometimes when I’m cooking, I suddenly look shocked at what I’m seeing in front of me. It is true that I replay YouTube videos in my head to entertain myself through the day, but it’s not that.
The ticks have been around for about a year straight now. There were three times they disappeared: when I took my first vacation to Florida and saw dolphins and a real sunset, when I went back to Miami beach and hung out with a bunch of homeless guys then got severely sunburnt, and when I flew out to Indiana to fall asleep in a boy’s arms. I warned him I might be difficult to sleep next to, but the urge to fidget and twitch completely left me the last time I was cared for like that. It was the thought that counts, when he made me that 20% alcoholic mixed drink and I drank it all in one go to be nice. In the bathroom when I looked down at the toilet, it was coming towards me and backing away rapidly. I went back to the couch with him to finish the dreadful Catwoman and I forgot all about where I was.
Indianapolis—the most boring city I’d ever been to, with an even more boring guy to match.
My uncle had to go suddenly on the phone one day as we were talking about this, but he finished up by saying: “I see this all the time. It’s because you have divorced parents. I see this all the time with kids whose parents are separated.”
Maybe it’s because I had to grow up too fast, and had to be the parent to my parents. I’ve never felt like someone had my back in the way dogs should feel about you. Always like someone might jump out, and you’re all alone at the defense. And maybe that’s why I felt the urge to be so multiskilled, although I went for the arts, which is essentially useless if someone is trying to kill me. “But have you seen my YouTube channel?”
It’s miraculous that I’m not into older guys, being so desperate for a father figure. I just attached myself to my English professor, like anyone else would.
I’m going to be honest when I say this story goes nowhere. If it did I wouldn’t be here writing this—I would be hanging out with the guy I had been talking to for three weeks. My friend said it’s cute, the way I can’t sleep when I meet a guy. I get too excited. The last one had me running on six hours of sleep for nearly two weeks. God’s either telling me to go for it, or to do all the work like I usually do.
I spent my Saturday night, once again, waiting for this boy. I stayed up late even though I had work in the morning, since there was a possibility we might finally get to meet one another. I was supposed to buy him lunch that afternoon, but he didn’t let me know until almost 4 o’clock it wasn’t possible. Maybe after his friend’s birthday party.
I have an Italian staying in my household. I’ve never called him by his name because I can’t pronounce it. Massimiliano. What a drama queen.
I’m renting out my extra room through Airbnb. I thought my dog would like it. She hated him so much I had to bring her to a sitter—even though she was fine with people coming in up until they started paying me for it.
So it’s 9:30 at night and I’m pacing. I don’t know when the Italian will come back but he’s driving me crazy. He complained because I didn’t have a wine opener. I told him I was sorry. He said “But if I don’t have the wine…I will die.” I’m also restless because I may or may not have a date tonight. My system is all out of whack because I don’t know how nervous I should be.
Point is, I needed my dog more than ever, and I had to send her away because of Fabio or whatever the fuck his name is, so I quickly hate him and the way he gets in my way as I try making myself breakfast, or how he asks if he can listen to me practice guitar—and nobody listens to me play guitar.
I never do this, but I went for a drive.
I always turn the music up all the way, then keep turning it up as my ears adjust even though it’s not possible. I felt the way I did every morning on the way to my old job at UPS, to pump myself up to load trucks with no A/C–so I’m playing Van Halen and air guitar (at red lights).
I know I’m wasting my time. Three weeks I’ve been waiting for him, and he doesn’t seem to really care that we haven’t been able to meet because of his poor planning skills. Maybe I should go for older guys—not 20 year old boys who vape. I just turned 22, and it’s too much for me. I think he was just glad he finally found someone that was okay with the fact he couldn’t go to bars.
I liked the way our conversations never got sexual, and at most, he would talk about how much he wanted to hug me.
I have not slept a full night's sleep in three weeks. I keep thinking I might see him, until he lets me know, last minute, he can’t. Five times.
I’m not good with disappointment, so I’ve taught myself to never get my hopes up for anything. I try to figure out why I’m so terrible when it comes down to it. The other people I observe, who are terrible overdramatic trainwrecks when let down, all have been disappointed one too many times. It’s just the act of snapping. And I was most definitely snapping.
That, plus my imagination was too wild. I love my fantasies. They’re always better than reality. This isn’t even exclusive to myself—most people just can’t successfully do it in the way that I do. I’m rapidly dreaming of it all in bed before I even fall asleep at night. It’s just soul crushing to be brought back to reality, where you realize it’s never gonna happen. I fantasized of laying next to him sometimes, but mostly I just fantasized of taking him to that restaurant, where sushi passes your table by on a conveyor belt, and seeing how excited it would’ve made him.
It’s why I started manically talking to the empty seat next to me, like I was showing him around. And I can’t stop. This is when imagination is no longer cute and quirky. This is when it’s gone too far.
For someone else, they might drink. For me, it’s caffeine. I never have caffeine. I work out every morning. I meditate as much as possible. Fucking balance. But that day I drank caffeine with a mimosa to prepare myself for the date I thought would happen. My energy levels are out of whack, and I’m already tired by 11pm. This is addictive behavior for me.
I pull off into a liquor store in the middle of nowhere. It says “Bitcoin ATM.” I buy a coconut water because it’s a classic for me, and Liquid Death to support Theo Von’s brand deal.
But I can’t take five more minutes. I park my car. I’ve found myself at Shelby Park in East Nashville, overlooking the lights on the other side of the river, but I’m not paying attention. There’s three other cars parked nearby but spaced deliberately, containing some other lost losers, and I wonder if we could start a campfire on the grass and all hug each other and really go all out on the hippie shit even if it’s just for one night and hopefully get abducted or something.
I have a condition where I can’t cry. I never, ever cry in real life. When I broke up with my ex two years ago, I didn’t cry until I placed myself in the character of Elliot in Mr. Robot when he entered a parallel universe full of could’ve-beens. He was financially successful, married the girl he loves, even had a sister.
The truth is I’m extremely sensitive—a sensitive person who was surrounded by insane people growing up. I didn’t alter the child in me, he’s just in a little padded cell, and can come out when he’s safe. It’s safe when I can live my life through a character in another life, not my own.
Although I can’t cry, I can tell when I should. Sitting in my car, I turn on The Dodo–that YouTube channel with all those little animals who get reunited with their families and second chances at life. I rewatch a video about a rescued baby cow who becomes best friends with a micro-pig.
The last time I watched this video, I bawled my eyes out immediately—but now, I can’t. Maybe I’m trying too hard. It’s funny how it actually feels like there’s a big black hole in your chest when you feel this way, and it’s not just a metaphor.
He answers back finally, and says him and his friends went to the gay bar downtown.
I ask him if I should just go to sleep.
A half hour later I ask him again if I should just go to sleep.
I give up on the disabled puppy videos and just turn on Box of Rain by the Grateful Dead. I was never a deadhead, but it’s the song my mom would sing to me when it was time for my nap. Although it’s the first song on American Beauty, it feels like it could be the last in any other context.
I am defeated when I decide, fuck it. Not because I want to, but because I know he will not answer until the morning. I drive back over the bridge into downtown Nashville as the buildings come towards me, all lit up, knowing he’s in there somewhere.
So I drive to the gay bar. I drive past some huge drag queens smoking outside. The windows are blacked out. I think: I could go inside right now—then I’ll finally get to meet him. I can pull him right off the dancefloor and ruin his night like he ruined mine.
I don’t know what I would’ve done, actually. But all I did do was drive past one more time, saying goodbye. My legs felt weak as I realized how close I was to him.
I told myself if I didn’t get to see him tonight, I would cut him loose.
Why couldn’t he be ugly? It would’ve been so much easier.
My coworker was talking about how she found Leprechaun to be the scariest movie of all time because of how terrified she was of ugly people. One day, that is how I will evolve. Short and ugly and consumed with rage. And pointy shoes.
I go home around midnight—you would think the Italian would be asleep, but turning on my living room dog camera, I see his foot bouncing on his knee on my couch. I hold my head in my hands. Why the fuck is he awake? Why the fuck is he on my couch? I don’t want to talk to him right now. I want to take a bath and slip under the water with my eyes open like they do in the movies.
I fess up and go inside. He said he had just gotten in ten minutes ago.
Great, so I could’ve avoided you.
He shows me a video he took inside the Bridgestone Arena of a bunch of monster trucks driving over dirt hills. He was fascinated with American culture. I pretend to be interested in him. Truth is, I dated an Italian for two years and it ruined my life.
Okay, fucking goodnight.
I lay in bed with no dog. That black hole spreads. It’s not a metaphor. This is the polar opposite of a hug. I think about that song from Spongebob, Ripped Pants. I think, this is how I feel.
When big Larry came 'round just to put him down
Spongebob turned into a clown
And no girl ever wants to dance
With a fool who went and ripped his pants
Oh, if he could see me now. I hug my teddy bear tight. I can’t fall asleep unless I’m hugging something. It’s hardly cute.
Now I learned a lesson I won't soon forget
So listen and you won't regret
Be true to yourself, don't miss your chance
And you won't end up like the fool who ripped his pants
It’s a terrible way to fall asleep—unresolved like this. For the first time, I want to talk to someone badly. But who? I have one friend for this type of thing, but she’s asleep. My mother, absolutely not. I didn’t talk to her about anything—not because I was getting into trouble, but because of the simple past.
I wanted to see if he would respond come morning.
When he didn’t, the first thing I did was write him a long paragraph on why I couldn’t “do this anymore.” All he said was “I understand,” six hours later.
The saddest part about all of this is that I’m wasting my breath on probably the most useless, empty husk of a man I’ve ever met.
I told you this story doesn’t go anywhere. The funny part is we’re talking again, before I even had a chance to finish writing this.
And the funny part about that is now, as I’m writing these last words, I’m thinking of cutting him off again—for longer than four days.
We all wish these types of things; problems that are too boring to even explain, were like a Twilight love triangle. Guy stands you up? Twilight love triangle. Not enough coins for the laundry? Twilight love triangle. But you imagine it is anyway. You imagine seeing that last quarter glinting off the headlights in the middle of the street and you run right into it, nearly getting smashed to pieces before Edward Cullen jumps out in front of it and saves you, sparkling in the cheap dayglo laundromat light.
But then you realize nothing like that would happen for a fucking quarter. That’s why people prostitute themselves for thousands of dollars and not cents.
When reality comes crashing back, it’s really not so bad. As I finish writing this, I’m already over it. It was loneliness. It’s what it always goes back to. It’s why I got a dog. Giving someone with absolutely no redeeming qualities more chances than they deserve? You lonely as hell.
This was my first attempt at getting back into dating. I am that level of melodramatic that only a gay man can achieve. This may happen again, and it’s okay. It’s only a matter of time before I can find the metaphor in all this. Or irony.